


I'll be the Wind

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ghost Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's a groundskeeper to a semi-popular cemetery and Castiel just wants his headstone fixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be the Wind

One of the first things his father told him when he was old enough to actually remember, right before he slept with his brother at his side, was that ghosts were real. Normal parents wouldn't dare teach their children that the monsters under their beds actually existed, but his father did. He worked as a groundskeeper for a cemetery – he was practically _obligated_ to believe it as fact. The stories they were told sounded like they were straight out of fairy tales and things old witches told people on the street. In youth, they were entertaining.

In adulthood, they were a mildly terrifying part of life, but something he was strangely accustomed to. Growing up in the Golden Isles, Dean Winchester spent majority of his childhood wandering the acres of graves at Christ Church, making sure no tourists left trash anywhere or defaced any of the headstones, much like his father did every Saturday, Tuesday and Thursday and occasionally after weddings or other events held in the chapel. Revival was a _magical_ time, especially when the Baptists commandeered the grounds.

It was very much a family business of sorts, entrusted to the Winchester’s since their arrival to the land over a hundred years before. They were responsible for keeping everything presentable, along with presiding over funeral processions and burials and the services those entailed. It didn't pay much – he didn't get paid at _all_ as a child, no matter how much he stuck around – but it was enough to scrape by. Some of his best memories, shoving aside the recollections of a broken home, never truly knowing maternal love or having a _conductive_ childhood – at least on his part – were of him and Sam visiting their mother’s grave and making a day of it, talking to her headstone like she was still there, sitting at their side.

And sometimes, if he the light caught just right between the limbs of live oaks and the shade of Spanish moss, he would swear to his dying day that she was still watching over them, brilliant hair wafting in the ever present breeze, silken hands clasped together, the same smile he remembered always there, always waiting for them.

He took the brunt of the abuse of their peers throughout their schooling – _apparently_ , doing a public service for a tourist town wasn't model behavior for the teenagers their age. At least that was what he told Sam whenever he would come home and ask just _why_ people didn't want to be near him or why girls would give him the perpetual stink eye whenever he wandered within three feet of them. He didn't want to tell him it was the association with death that gave their family a bad name. He was too young at the time; he deserved better than that.

Maybe if they lived a life away from the job, if they were born _anywhere_ else, maybe they would’ve had a chance.

Which boiled down to Sam’s reasoning to get out of Georgia as fast as he could by the time he graduated. The kid was _smart_ , he had to give him credit there. Full ride to wherever he wanted to go, his given choice some place out in California. At least he could escape the humidity and start a new life, free of the scrutiny and persecution they’d both endured just because of a family tradition. At least the _tourists_ appreciated it.

Dean, though, stayed behind. Even after burying their father in the plot designated for the four of them ten years before, he continued on with the grounds, conducting at least three burials a year from more affluent families in the area, planting and uprooting flowers when deemed fit, mowing in the main yard, removing tree limbs that fell after summer storms – the works. He’d become acquainted with each and every resident behind and around the church, paying some more respect than others. The graves of babies and children long since passed were always adorned with something, whether he put it there or not.

It was a lonely job, but he made it work. He still had the family home with no mortgage payments, his car, a side job as a bartender for the days he wasn’t tending to the dead, and he felt utterly at peace.

Despite all the years he spent around the buried corpses though, he never had the chance to encounter a spirit – besides his mother, but he refused to admit that that counted. She was his _mother_ , not a ghost. Besides, he hadn’t seen her in years, not since John’s funeral. Though there was one incident where he happened upon a faint candlelight above one of the much older headstones. Despite that, he never really did have his father’s sense for the supernatural. Maybe they were all stories just to entertain – or terrify – him before bed. He felt stupid for believing them in the first place.

Summers along the coast were near broiling, forcing him to alternate from his winter attire of assorted flannels and leather jackets to short sleeved shirts and jeans – and on the hottest of days, the dreaded tank top and _shorts_. God forbid someone see him more skin than necessary. His job for that day consisted of taking care of a set of graves in the far west corner of the yard; a branch had fallen in the storm earlier in the week, and he’d only been able to tend to a good sixteenth of the acreage before nightfall of his last shift. Rakes, and handsaw in tow, he marked off the area with bright traffic cones and set to work.

An hour in and one refuse bag full of smaller limbs, he _really_ considered asking for a raise. _No one_ should have to work in that weather. Sweat bled through his shirt and down his brow, the oaks offering no respite to his plight; he already went through two water bottles, and he was about to start on his third when a short, chilled wind rolled past, lingering on the back of his neck ever so briefly. _Nice_ was an understatement. He found himself swearing once the feeling dissipated from his skin.

It hadn’t completely vanished, though. To the left of his vision, a _man_ was sitting on the edge of one of the monuments; an Angel with wings tucked tight to its back, looking solemnly over the plot with eyes closed. He always thought it was beautiful, in the shade of the moss; in the moonlight, it almost looked like it was crying. And now some weird transparent… _man_ was swinging his legs back and forth, feet passing through the granite with every movement.

 _Wait_.

He took in the figure on second glance. The disheveled hair, dirt-stained white dress shirt, tattered brown slacks kept in place by a set of black suspenders – he wasn't from this era, let alone this _century_ , he figured _._ Blue eyes watched him curiously, hands fidgeting in his lap. Dean couldn't close his mouth fast enough. His mind was screaming at him to either run far away or ignore him. _Maybe he’ll go away if you don’t pay him any attention._

Following the directives of the latter thought, he went back to raking through the dead leaves and limbs. Still, he felt the eyes of the _thing_ on him, probably waiting for him to leave. He _was_ disturbing his plot, after all. Then again, he disturbed everyone there and _they_ never bothered him. Why this guy? “Hello, Dean.”

He nearly choked on his _tongue_. The first words he had heard all day, and it was his name. His _name_ – “How do you know my name?” he nearly shrieked, dropping the rake into the grass. The ghost watched him, a barely there smile upticking his lips. “C’mon, spit it out!”

The strange man chuckled to himself, wafting from his perch to stand before him, too close for comfort. He could see through his head. “Your family line has watched over us for over a century. I’ve watched you grow up.” He tilted his head, observing. “You’re much taller up close.”

Dean crossed his arms, huffing. “It’s not cool to… creep on people, dude.”

“My apologies.” In a slight effort to ease the tension, the entity stepped back at least a foot, blades of green sticking up through his feet. _God_ , this was weird. “I normally wouldn't show myself to you, but I believe a past storm has disturbed my monument.” He motioned towards the Angel and crept closer, a pale hand pressed firmly against a leg.

In curiosity, Dean followed him to the plot, taking note of the name etched into the granite – Castiel Novak. So _that_ was his name – he could stop referring to him as ‘creepy ghost man’ in his head. Born 1839, died 1864, with the inscription, ‘Angels are watching over you now.’ Under where the man’s hand rested was a long surface crack reaching from the ankle to mid thigh; a relatively large sized chunk was missing, and immediately he recognized it as the rock he had set aside on his tin lunch box. There weren’t any scorch patterns, so lightning could be ruled out. Maybe it was from the branch he cleaned up the other day; he hadn’t noticed any damage before. Now, it was plain as day.

Going over to retrieve the fallen stone, he held it back in place; it fit perfectly, no other pieces broken off. It’d be easier to fix, this way. “I could get some epoxy from home and sand it down for you, if you’d want? I can fix it on Thursday after my shift.” He knew it was weird to ask a _ghost_ for permission to fix his grave; normally, he would’ve done it without a second thought. Several of the other headstones and monuments on the property had been repaired by either his or his father’s hand. Most of the time, no one could tell it had been damaged. He prided himself on that.

The ghost – Castiel, he forced himself to remember – nodded his gratitude. “It’d be much appreciated.”

With a quick sound of acknowledgement, he set the stone beside the monument and went back to his rake. It was all much cleaner than it was when he started that morning; he could walk more than two feet without stepping on twigs. And still, Castiel was there, now watching from his perch with his chin in his hands. “So you just gonna watch me work all day?”

“Would that be weird?” He cocked an eyebrow. Sunlight was streaming through his body now, obscuring some parts more than others. His face was always visible; at least he was nice to look at.

Dean shrugged. “Nah,” he admitted, because _really_. For a ghost, he wasn’t terrifying. He just wanted his statue fixed – he could at least give him that one thing. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to today. It’s… nice to hear someone talk, y’know?”

Castiel’s face visibly brightened. “You think of me as a person?”

“Well… yeah? I mean, you were human once, I don’t see why you’re not _now_.” He reached over to pick up a larger limb, breaking it into smaller pieces to throw into the refuse bag. “Other than the whole… floaty, ‘I can see through your body’ thing.”

“You’re nicer than your father was,” Castiel mused; Dean watched him wearily. “He never talked to me. I’ve been trying to get this repaired for ninety years, but no one would listen.” A pause. “I think… you’re the first one to see me.”

Dean stopped. Momentarily he felt giddy at the concept – his father could see ghosts, but he’d missed _this_ one. And _he_ was the one to find him. “Y’really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?” he added with a humorous note.

Castiel’s smile was a bit livelier that time. His legs kicked enthusiastically. He spent the remainder of the day finishing cleaning the six plots at one point directing a few visitors to Eugenia Price’s grave, afterwards packing up his belongings and threw them into the trunk of his Impala. The ghost followed him each step of the way, hands always clasped behind his back, face pensive. A sort of disappointment crossed his features when Dean announced his intended departure. “You promise you’ll fix it, right?”

Dean nodded. “No sense making you wait any longer, right?” he commented, toweling away the sweat at the nape of his neck. “I normally only fix life-or-death cracks, but for you, I’ll make an exception.” He went to pat Castiel’s shoulder, stopping himself halfway. He wasn't _human_ – he wouldn’t be able to feel it.

Castiel sensed his predicament, completing what Dean couldn't by touching a cold hand to his shoulder, fitting his fingers there comfortable. It nearly froze him to the bone, but there was warmth behind it. He smiled. “I’ll be back Thursday.”

With a nod, Castiel added, “Thank you, Dean,” and promptly faded from view. For the first time, he recognized how alone he really felt.

-+-+-+-+-+-

It rained that Thursday, from sun up and through the lunch hour. He couldn't work in that weather; maintenance was for the sun, not torrential downpours. He would miss out on a day of pay, but that meant he could have an afternoon off that didn't involve hauling heavy equipment or mixing whatever fancy drinks the populous could concoct. There was nothing to do – still, he felt like he was forgetting something of sheer importance.

It wasn't until nearly three in the afternoon that he remembered – the _grave_. The entire reason he looked forward to that day was to fix the monument. He wasn't the type of person to break a promise. Which was exactly why he grabbed up whatever epoxy and sandpaper he could find and shoved it into the passenger seat of his car, remembering halfway into starting the engine that he didn't have any _shoes_. Or a tarp, for that matter.

Castiel was waiting for him under the awning of the church fifteen minutes later, raindrops passing through his form with ease. He looked solemn; Dean deflated at the sight. At the feet of the ghost, Castiel stood with his head lowered. “I thought you forgot.”

Never in his life had he wanted to hug someone more than he did in that moment. Or punch himself, either one. Not even _Sam_ could pull a face to compare to this. Castiel was an almost two-century-old spirit with no way of contacting anyone in the physical realm, and then Dean walked into his immortal life and gave him hope. And he’d nearly crushed it because of the rain. “I’d never forget this.” And he wouldn't – in the end, he would always remember. He’d always come back.

The entire process of resetting the stone and refilling the crack took ten minutes, with an additional five hour drying time once the tarp was set up. In return, Castiel unlocked the door to the main building of the church and allowed him inside out of the rain. Immaculate stained glass adorned the multiple windows and the wall behind the altar, each one depicting different scenes from the Bible. If it were fair weather, he was sure the sun would shine brilliantly through and illuminate the wood floors. Instead, they were dulled, the only light being that from the rows of candles nearest the largest window and the gray sky outside.

“It’s lonely here,” Castiel commented at one point, amongst the pitter-patter of rain on the rooftop. “Existing for this long, watching people come and go, time passing by endlessly… No one ever visits my section anymore. You’re the first in a long while.”

Dean folded his hands in his lap, fingers twitching with the urge to console, to touch something that wasn't there. “How… did you die?” Probably the _stupidest_ question in the world, but he had to ask. “Were you in the war?”

The ghost shook his head. “My brother shot me by accident. I don’t think he ever really got over it.” He gave a shrug. “He used to visit me a lot, but then I never saw him again. He’s not buried on the grounds.”

“…That’s rough.” Dean sat back in the pew, resting his feet on the bench in front of him and crossing his ankles. “What about the rest of your family?”

“I guess they moved on. …Have you ever wondered what happens to those who’ve been forgotten? Those whose name hasn’t been spoken in so long, it’s like they don’t exist anymore?” With chilled hands, he touched Dean’s knee. “Can you… say my name?”

Part of him expected to feel flesh when he touched the hand on his pant leg; again, that sense of cold was there, but with it was a very faint pulse. It was weird – the whole _situation_ was weird. “Castiel Novak.” The ghost radiated a feeling of pure exasperation, practically glowing with it; his heart skipped a beat at the sight. “How’d you even get that name, anyway?”

“Religious family. Couldn’t you tell by my grave?” he remarked through a small laugh. “What happened to your brother?” Dean turned to him. “He used to come with you when you were younger, but I haven’t seen him lately.”

“He moved to San Francisco.” Castiel nodded at the admission. “Picked a good college out there, we still talk though.” Dean sighed. “He wasn’t cut out for life here, what with this job and everyone’s opinions on it.”

“How can you talk to him if he’s not here, though?” The ghost cocked his head somewhat with his brow furrowed, something Dean was finding more and more adorable with each passing second. Was he _really_ twenty-five when he died?

Lifting his hips, he fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped the screen open, lighting up the space between them. “We have these things called cell phones now,” he offered. “You can call people long distance, lik—.”

The second Castiel touched a finger to the device, the battery died. One of the candles in the far off distance flickered out. “Did I—.”

He snorted. “Yeah, ghosts and electricity don’t mix well. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He replaced the phone before Castiel could do any further damage other than drain whatever electronics he had on his person. Hopefully no one would call him any time soon.

The rain fell idly through the remainder of their wait, in which he spent introducing the spirit to just what he had missed out on since his departure. Most of which he couldn’t have experienced in the first place, unless he somehow discovered the secret to immortality in the middle of the 1800’s. Automobiles were the most fascinating things to him. Dean offered him a ride if he ever wanted to travel; Castiel informed him he couldn't leave the grounds, but he’d sit in the passenger seat whenever possible.

It was nearing eight in the afternoon before they made their way back to the grave to survey the work done. With the last vestiges of light streaming through gradually parting clouds, Dean pulled the blue tarp off the marker, revealing the pale seam from where he sealed the granite together; even the missing stone fit perfectly into place. It would take another few sanding sessions, but hopefully it would stay secure for another few years as long as he maintained it. It wasn't like the person who made it in the _first_ place was still alive.

At his side, he didn't notice the look of _relief_ on the spirit’s face until he heard an exhale. Castiel was _crying_. To his knowledge, he wasn't aware that ghosts could cry, let alone show emotion. But he was defying all of his expectations. There at his side was a man shot down in his prime, looking at the one thing he’d come to know the most, his own grave. Even with the crack, it was still beautiful. “ _Thank you_. Truly, Dean, thank you.”

He would’ve said something along the lines of ‘it’s no problem,’ but instead he felt the sheer cold of a being wrapped in Castiel’s embrace, seeping through his rain-soaked clothes into his bones. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't tangibly hug him back; wouldn't he just pass right through him? But to the best of his ability, he tried, placing his hands over where his shoulder blades would be.

The ghost purred at the gesture, awkward as it was. “You’ll keep visiting me, right?”

That was the _last_ thing he wanted to do, to ignore him. In some vague sense of familiarity, Dean nuzzled what could be perceived as Castiel’s neck, closing his eyes to the darkening night sky. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Cas.”

He felt Castiel smile. “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, my name is Ash and I'd like to be your tourism guide to Georgia (((◎∀◎)))
> 
> Notes:  
> -If you're ever in Brunswick, GO TO CHRIST CHURCH. It's free to visit and it's seriously a beautiful place.  
> -There's a ghost story about a candle burning above one of the graves in the cemetery. More information (along with pictures of the place) [can be found here.](http://southernspiritguide.blogspot.com/2012/03/theres-lightchrist-church-frederica.html)  
> -Eugenia Price wrote a ton of books about St. Simons and she's a local celebrity there. She's buried somewhere near the back of the cemetery hidden by some bushes.  
> -Title is from the Garth Brooks song, "I'll be the Wind."
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
